


New Orleans Blues

by mrua7



Series: Strange, scary stories and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. [34]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cemetery, Curses, Gen, New Orleans, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: The agents again find themselves in New Orleans, and a place they'd prefer to avoid, but an assignment is an assignment.





	

“Why do we always seem to end up in a cemetery when we’re in New Orleans?” Napoleon groaned.  
  
He rubbed his arms with his hands, getting goosebumps. Cemeteries gave him the creeps. The memories not withstandng of once having had to deal with voodoo magic, and being the victim of a voodoo doll curse didn't help either.*

“I agree,” Illya whispered.

His thoughts were of the same incident involving the Voodo woman Mama Luc and the loa Sousson-Pannan, supposedly one of the demon-spirits of the voodoo religion.*

  
The agent's encounter with them, and what happened was to say the least, chilling if not perplexing to the pragmatic Russian.*

Kuryakin still wasn’t quite convinced of Sousson- Pannan being real, but now he at least kept an open mind as it being a possibility that the loa was not a hoax. Without hard evidence for him to examine, he couldn’t be sure.

  


 

The agents opened the double iron gates to the lonely cemetery, hesitating for a moment as they surveyed the surroundings. Drawing their weapons as a precaution, they began creeping along the rows of mausoleums and bizarre grave markers.

Given the water table here, people were buried in concrete sarcophaguses, or above ground mausoleums thus preventing the coffins from washing away in the event of a flood…though not everyone could afford such protection for their final resting place.

Some coffins were merely interred in the ground, with a stone slab over their grave marked by a headstone or statue to signify their place in eternity.

 

 

The air was filled with the sounds of crickets, cicadas, and the rustling of the leaves in the trees surrounding them. A peculiar odor hung over the place, one that smelled musty, moldy...like old death.

Napoleon and Illya searched by flashlight, looking for the monument where they were to meet their contact to make an exchange. It was merely a courier run, but in the cemetery it felt odd and just plain unsettling. He supposed the agent meeting them had a flair for the dramatic.

Finally they located the the mausoleum, and there they waited, and waited.

“Do think we’re being stood up?” Napoleon asked after looking at his wristwatch. They’d been there a half hour already.

A moment later a frightening skeletal figure wearing a red-feathered top hat, decorated with tiny skulls stepped into view. He was smoking an enormous cigar and carried a long carved walking stick with the top carved into the likeness of a skull. Draped around his neck was a rather large snake.

“Don’t worry mon,”his blue eyes stared out at them like beacons.”I be dressed like this ‘cause I give cemetery tours at night. I be the likeness of the Voodoo Loa Baron Samedi. Figured it better to stay in costume to meet you.”

 

 

“How clever,” Illya drolly remarked.

“Here mon, dis da package for you.”

“How do you know we’re the ones you think we are?” Napoleon accepted it, thinking this guy had that flair for the damatic after all.

“Who else be here but us UNCLE agents. You be Solo and Kuryakin. I seen your photos before in da field office here. My name is Louis Grand-Borie, Section III. “

“And why again are you dressed like this?” Illya asked.

We’re not that busy round these parts; I moonlight here in the graveyards for the tourist trade.” Louis' accent changed as he drifted out of character.

“Nice doing business with you Louis, now we best be on our way,” Napoleon tapped his partner on the shoulder.

“Au revoir mes ami,” Grand-Borie waved before disappearing into the darkness.

Illya had already turned and began walking away.

“Hey tovarisch, wait for me!”

“Why, are you afraid?”

“Well I was startled by Louis’ costume. It reminded me of…”

“Yes,” Illya nodded, “Soussan-Pannan, I know. That is a memory I do not wish to revisit. I found his manner of dress...unsettling as well.”

“Oh so you were scared,” Napoleon chuckled.

“No.”

“Admit it.”

“No, now will you hurry. The sooner we get out of here the better I will feel,” Illya hissed.

His tone of voice didn’t bode well. “What’s wrong tovarisch?”

“I have a feeling we are being watched,” he whispered.

Napoleon could have put it off to paranoia, but the Russian’s instincts were usually spot on.

“Maybe we should take a different route to the exit?” Solo suggested.

“Good idea my friend.”

They wove their way through the rows of aging mausoleums covered in lichen and stained black from dampness, Periodically the agents turned off their flashlights and waited, hiding behind a tomb while listening.

There was no sign of them being followed, much to their relief. Still Kuryakin couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched.

They continued on, but now found themselves in a part of the cemetery that was in a state of neglect. It was the 'non-perpetual care' section; those interred there were from the 19th century, most likely without descendants to see to the care of their graves.

The agents stopped by a monument overgrown with ivy to get their bearings; beside it stood a weather worn statue of an angel.

Illya sat down, suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of a terrible sadness.

 

Napoleon felt himself drawn to the statue, staring at the angel. When he did he felt it too, what Illya was experiencing, an overwhelming sense of despair.  
  
He did a double take; the angel’s hands were now covering its face as if it were weeping, but he swore its hands had been crossed on its chest when they first stopped. He turned away but something made him look back.

That’s when it happened. The angel came to life, charging at him with a fang-filled mouth opened wide as it reached for him.

 

Before he could move, it took hold of him and moved its face towards his.

“Kiss me,” it hissed, pleading in a raspy voice.”Please.”

Napoleon tried freeing himself, calling to Illya for help but the Russian didn’t hear him. Kuryakin’s empathy...from his gypsy blood, had tapped into the anguish and grief that the statue exuded. He was overwhelmed by it, and unable to move.

“Kiss me or die,” the angel ordered Napoleon.

Its stony lips closed, and at that moment Solo did as he was asked. He kissed it, not a peck but a long, sensual kiss; the kind that Napoleon was most capable of delivering.

The statue released him from her stony grip and stepped back.

There was a shimmering that enveloped the angel and a second later it was gone; in its place stood the ghostly apparition of a beautiful girl dressed in a long gown, the kind a southern belle would have worn.

“Thank you for freeing me from mah curse. Mah spirit was to spend eternity trapped in that form. I was waiting for you, a true gentleman, sir. You had the courage to kiss me." She raised her hand."Farewell.”

The spirit faded.  
  
Napoleon looked to his partner who was just coming back to his senses.

“Napoleon, what happened? I was trapped in these overwhelming feelings of despondency.”

“Let's say the blues just took on a new meaning. I'll explain shortly, but let's get out of here first, and as quickly as we can tovarisch."

 

 

[*ref “That Voodoo That You Do So Well”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5032111)

 


End file.
